


How The Lion Got His Mane

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Series: Fools Rush In [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Kinloch, they send Cullen away. He is broken, torn down to nothing, he wakes--when he can sleep--from night terrors with blood-curdling screams that drive the crows from the aerie and the recruits from their beds. </p><p>They send him to Greenfell, in the middle of Maker-blessed nowhere. A small Chantry along the Pilgrim’s Path, nothing but an outpost on a major trade route. It’s all common banditry and local disputes and demands from the Mayor. There are no mages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How The Lion Got His Mane

## Greenfell, 9:30

After Kinloch, they send Cullen away. He is broken, torn down to nothing, he wakes-–when he can sleep-–from night terrors with blood-curdling screams that drive the crows from the aerie and the recruits from their beds. 

They send him to Greenfell, in the middle of Maker-blessed nowhere. A small Chantry along the Pilgrim’s Path, nothing but an outpost on a major trade route. It’s all common banditry and local disputes and demands from the Mayor. There are no mages.

He is nineteen-–they’re still having to adjust his armor every few months because he’s still not done growing and filling out–-but Kinloch leaves him hollow, harrowed, careworn and hurt. They send him to the Chantry because he’s a full Templar, he’s already on the lyrium leash, they can’t cut him loose for being a survivor, but they don’t know what to do for him. Kinloch is unprecedented. There’s no protocol.

The Knight-Captain has no patience for an invalid, for the mollycoddling of the Chantry Mother who prays for the boy, who takes him thin broths when he won’t eat at the common table. Either the boy is a man and a Templar, or he is useless to the Order. The Mother prevails on him for a few months of rest, but he grows tired of it, and the next time there is a demand from the Mayor, he sends the boy back out into the field, ignoring his hollow eyes and haunted looks. 

He doesn’t acquit himself well, but he doesn’t flee a fight either. He is…leaden…wooden…slow…stifled. But he reacts better if he’s had lyrium poured down his gullet, and the Captain makes sure this happens regularly. It helps the rest of the Chantry sleep through the night if the little bastard isn’t screaming. He keeps sending the boy out with patrols, thinking in the very deepest part of himself that if something happens, if something regrettable happens, well. He tried, didn’t he? He gave the pup a place to lick his wounds, he did, and then, in the heat of battle…well. Templars die. It happens.

Cullen has become a golem, animated but heartless, trudging along with the lyrium singing a dreary march in his mind. Sometimes, when the song peaks with energy and pleasing tones, he feels better–-whole-–like the blue bliss is filling up the empty spaces in his chest. Other times, it’s this. Just this…dirge.

Until the mages come for him again.

They’re on patrol, keeping the peace along the Pilgrim’s Path. This is one of the worst patches they’re coming up on, dark under the trees, ripe for ambush and thievery. It’s almost a relief when they hear the clash ahead, the threat of violence. It fills his deadened limbs with purpose, the lyrium soaring in his veins.

He doesn’t see the mage until a fireball nearly scalds his face, ducking on instinct alone at the last moment, his breath searing in his throat with a choked gasp–-too little air right there, burned up by the flames. Shards of ice are next, lancing toward him and–-something shuts off in his head. He is not in a barrier, in the heart of Kinloch. He is here, in a frozen moment, sword and shield heavy in his hands, lyrium singing through his veins with a fierce and righteous song–-

He doesn’t remember anything after that.

When he comes back to himself, the bandits are dead-–the mages Silenced, stifled, bodies battered. There is blood on his sword, trickling down his cheek.

The lieutenant of his unit is giving him a wild-eyed and watchful look. Cullen feels dazed, full of the buzzing of the lyrium, adrenaline still pumping through him. He looks around, lost.

There is a Rivaini family traveling with the caravan–-the wife and daughters of the caravan master. And the caravan master doesn’t shrink from Cullen in fear-–no, he prostrates himself at Cullen’s feet, because one of the mages had one of his daughters in their arms and was taunting and abusing her when the Templars came along.

Cullen comes back to himself enough to be embarrassed by the merchant’s gratitude–-he’s still a farmboy, he’s just a Templar, he’s just doing his duty. 

When the Templar officer rounds the unit up to return to Greenfell, the bandits disposed of and the caravan preparing to take off again, there’s a voice:

“Captain–”

The leader of the Templars turns, thinking he’s being addressed-–the Rivaini don’t use the southern “Ser,” “Serrah,” “Messere." The merchant’s daughter, the one who was being hurt, looking a little disheveled and  **mad**  because she’s not a wilting violet or anything, if she’d had her knife on her like she usually did while they were traveling, if her damn father hadn’t told her mother to hide it just that morning because it wasn’t proper–-

The girl is clearly not looking at the Templar officer but right at the back of Cullen’s oblivious head, and she has a package wrapped in oilcloth in her hands, clutched to her. She doesn’t look happy about it-–she’s still mad about her damned knife.

“Boy.” That, gruffly, from the lieutenant, with a careless cuff to Cullen’s shoulder.

Cullen turns around, is still a little dazed and buzzing from the lyrium and the fight and the realization that he is not in the CAGE he is FREE–-

The girl steps forward belligerently, thrusts the package against his chest, because he doesn’t raise his arms to take it; he just stands there, confused. “I thank you for my honor.” Her voice is piping hot mad, trembling with resentment at the form her words take–-her father’s voice in her ear, urgent and scolding.

Cullen blinks, his hands coming up belatedly, to cradle the package-–and it crinkles, something soft inside the oilcloth. “I–-pardon, my lady, I don’t-–” Because of course he just calls women “my lady” but he does it unironically, he was raised right–-his mother’s voice, her hands gentle on his curls, soothing him to sleep after a tantrum or childhood hurt:  _“Even little girls who pull your hair and devil you with frogs will be ladies someday, dearheart.”_

She stamps her foot, her eyes shooting up as she frowns at him. Thin braids in a bronzed waterfall against her dark cheeks, delicate brows, bow-curved lips, a tiny gold stud winking in one nostril. She’s slender and still a little coltish with youth, but pretty, he thinks.

“For you, captain. To thank you for saving my honor.” She puts an emphasis on honor that he doesn’t understand–-he’s not privy to her thoughts or the cause of her current temper.

“That’s–-not necessary!” He’s uncomfortable now, heat burning up his throat and his cheeks and–-Maker have mercy, the tips of his ears. “I uh-–”

He tries to hand the package back, but she has given him one last look of scowling disapproval and stalked back to the wagon where her family is waiting. Cullen’s commanding officer hollers for him to hurry the blazes up, Void take him for a wool-headed waste of a good Templar blade–-Cullen sighs helplessly with a fervent “Maker’s breath,” turns on his heel, and marches back to join his brother Templars, the package tucked under his elbow.

The caravan begins a slow roll away once more, the girl back up in the wagon, seated next to a robed and hooded figure. She shakes back her braids, muttering darkly under her breath, and viciously pokes the hooded figure. “You’re about as much use as a toad in a desert, Elyse. You could have just ZAPPED them!”

A slight smirk curves the bow-shaped lips visible within the shadow of the hood, the elder sister unperturbed by the younger’s pique. “With all those big beautiful Templars waving their swords around and Silencing anything that sparked funny? I don’t think so, little girl. Now hush. You’re just sour because you were going to give the pelt to your precious Khaled.”

The younger girl makes a sound that’s a good approximation of the big cat whose pelt she just handed away to a stranger–- “I wish Templars  **would**  take you, you’re the worst.”

She’s mad but she doesn’t mean it-–it’s just sisters being sisters-–there’s no reason at all that a Prophet weeps at the words.

When Cullen returns to the tiny cell in the Chantry-–they’ve had to put him in a cell by himself, a scandalous luxury, in their minds, but his night terrors keep the other Templars and recruits awake–-he sets the package on his cramped cot and stares at it as if it’s a snake that might bite him. He stands indecisive, the buzz of the lyrium starting to fade a little at last. Finally, he sighs in aggravation at himself and tugs the oilcloth open, but the sight before him doesn’t mean much at first.

A…fur?

His gauntleted fingers reach out, nudge it. He remembers the blood on his hands, but doesn’t think of it in terms of something that has anything to do with him at the moment. He tugs one glove loose, frees a hand, reaches out again. His fingers are hesitant, until they feel the thick ruff, and his hand sinks into it, caressing. The fur is coarse, thick, black with streaks of deep russet. He doesn’t understand what it is–-it is divorced of the context of the living body that bore it.

But his tired mind conjures one of the rich illustrations of the copy of the Chant that was in Kinloch-–he’s coming down off the high of adrenaline and battle and lyrium and his mind doesn’t even think to flinch-–the pages are before his eyes, brightly colored and illuminated, and curled around the capital, the giant L taking up a quarter of the page, gilded with rare gold leaf, blood red and verdant green and sea blue, and around it curled–-

A lion. Tawny and with a rich thick ruff, dark amber eyes somnolent, huge paws at rest, teeth concealed in a pose of peace.

If he thinks-–for just a moment-–he can almost recall the Chant, not one of the recognized Canticles, this was something else, some apocrypha, but the illustrations were richer here for all that–-

 _Let him take notice and shine upon thee,_  
for thou has done His work on this day  
And the stars stood still, the winds did quiet,  
And all the animals of earth and air held their breath…  
And all was silent in prayer and thanks.

A lion. His fingers stroke through the pelt, his mind drifting, so exhausted-–it is the first soft thing that he has touched in…an age. A soft thing, but also fierce. Strength in repose. A lion.

Eventually he shakes himself–-the darkness begins to reassert itself-–the lyrium is a quiet pulse, he needs more, he needs the song to keep the darkness at bay. When he places the pelt deep at the bottom of his one battered chest, a drop of wetness falls, catching salty and sparkling in the feathering fur. He shuts the chest with finality, unaware of the tracks of tears on his harrowed cheeks.

He removes his armor, cleans his sword, and collapses at last into the cot, mind a perfect blank of exhaustion.

* * *

The pelt stays in his trunk for nearly a decade.

* * *

## Kirkwall, between 9:32 and 9:37

So. That’s only how Cullen gets the fur. It’s not magically attached to a surcoat.

There’s a Templar in Kirkwall-–she’s a Marcher through and through, tall, raw-boned, good with a sword. She’s nearly of a height with him and they train together at first because when he joins the Templars at Kirkwall his arrival is surrounded by rumor and he’s nearly a pariah.

She’s got a burn along her throat and the lower half of her left cheek-–and she doesn’t hide it. She wears it on her skin like a badge. He asks her about it once, thinking he’s being tender, her legs still wrapped around his hips, the lower edge of her curiass digging into him. Her long, callused fingers are still tangled in his hair, and she tugs, a look flickering across her face that he can’t read.

“Mage fire,” she says shortly. Her eyes, this close, are dark–-almost black–-they're such a deep velvet brown.

Cullen recoils, his head wrenching back, but his arms still anchored around her. “Maker’s breath. It’s a wonder you can stand to be anywhere near a Harrowing without simply running them through.” His mind is spinning, thinking of her scar and the scars he bears that can’t be seen.

Thea closes her eyes, fingers tightening in his hair before she pushes him away from her. “You still don’t get it. This is a calling.” Her eyes flick back up to his, watching him, studying him.

He’s flushing in sudden shame, tucking himself back into his breeches and tugging the laces tight with a scowl. Of course she would push him away, Maker’s breath, what is he fucking doing?

She presses her wide, mannish hand to his chest, to the Templar sigil embossed in his breastplate. “You think mages are your enemy, but they’re not. This,” she flicks a finger dismissively at her scar, “this is a reminder. Sometimes they can’t help themselves–-can’t protect themselves–-can’t control the power the Maker gave them. That is my charge. The Maker has turned His face away in sadness, but I was made to stand the Vigil, to protect those He has given his Gift.”

Cullen stares at her in faint horror. “How can you say that when you bear the marks of their corruption?”

Her face shutters. “The girl who did this was fifteen years old. Too young for a Harrowing-–too weak. We all knew it. I stood with her anyway. No one wanted it-–they all knew she was going to fail. But the Knight-Commander insisted, and the First Enchanter agreed–-what else could she do? They were going to make her Tranquil, she couldn’t control herself. It was the only chance she would have.”

“But at least-–Tranquil-–she would live, unharmed and content!” Cullen protests.

The look she gives him is pitying, and he bristles. “Do you understand the Rite of Tranquility? Do you know how it works?”

“Of course! It shields their minds from the impulses that invite demons!”

Thea laughs, a short bark of sound that puts his back up. He is her Knight-Captain, she should–-she should watch herself. What in the Maker’s name was he thinking??

“It severs them from the Fade. It doesn’t protect them from anything. It’s a sword wielded against the weak, not a shield. They don’t dream, after. Did you know that? They don’t feel hate or love or mirth. They are empty.”

Every word is a lash against him. She is striking him with her truths, her lies, her implacable eyes holding his. She touches her scar again, strokes it gently. Her eyes are sad. He is burning with shame and resentment and anger.

“She burned herself to a cinder rather than hurt me. She was strong enough for that. She was caught between Tranquility, a demon, and harming a friend–-and she smiled as she burned. The last words on her lips were of gratitude as my blade ended her suffering.”

Cullen rakes his hands through his hair, turning away from her, tormented by memory. “I…am sorry. I cannot but feel that you did her a service and protected your Circle.”

She heaves a sigh, boots scraping on the stones as she straightens her tunic and runs her fingers back through her own short hair to settle it. He startles when her arm slips around him, squeezing in a brief embrace, and her chapped lips brush the nape of his neck tenderly.

“Don’t trouble yourself over it, Captain. It’s just a scar. We’ve all got those.”

She slips away before he can think of how to answer, humming a bit as she makes her way out of the dim back hallway. Cullen runs his hands over his face, sighs, shifts his armor uncomfortably–-as though his discomfort is something external and not a cramp in his soul.

* * *

Thea sees him weeping once. She never brings it up–-what earthly purpose would it serve?–-but she knows the rumors are at least half true, and she knows no man with hands that gentle ever came to hate the way he does without cause. It hurts her heart-–Maker, everything about him hurts her heart: his tender curls, his soft kisses, his aching exhaustion when he hasn’t slept–-she can always see it in his eyes, he has the eyes of a man far beyond his years–-the way he cradles her against him when he’s fucking her, as if she’s something gentle and sweet and not a double handful of big-boned mannish Marcher with big hands and a face the Maker couldn’t love.

But she sees him weeping, his hands buried in a-–what is that? a fur?--and it breaks her heart. She’s a little sorry she told him about the Harrowing-–but only a little. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he’s got this darkness in him that worries her in a man with his gentle hands and upward mobility. The last thing the Order needs is another man with Silence in his heart and a ready hand on the brand of Tranquility, and she thinks he’s the kind of man who will make a perfect monster if someone doesn’t fucking save him from himself and all of that fear and anger–-

Thea shakes her head at herself, snorting with disgust as she strides through the halls of the Gallows. Maker, what a grim, ghastly shithole full of outcasts and broken Templars this is. And she is one of them, Maker save her.

Maker save her, and have mercy on her prideful soul–-because she wants to save that beautiful, sad, angry, amber-eyed man. The last time she saved anyone it was with a sword in their belly. She reminds herself, callously–-but it doesn’t help.

* * *

The lion’s mane is out on his bed once when she comes in. He has a real bed, as Knight-Captain, and he’s not on a hall full of prying-eyed recruits, so sometimes she comes to him. She sees it bother him that she feels comfortable in his space, sees him beat himself with the reminder that she’s his subordinate. It would be funny if he weren’t so damned broken and beautiful.

She takes it in her hands, delighted at the feel of it, delighted at this strange and wondrous thing, that he has secrets that aren’t dark. She pets it, smiling up at him, then swirls it around her shoulders. It settles just right, full and luxurious and fierce, and she laughs, an indelicate, loud sound. It’s perfect.

“You should have this made into a cape. It’s magnificent!”

She grins up at him, liking the feel of the fur on her shoulders, against her neck and cheeks-–likes touching his things and invading his space and forcing him to deal with her there.

He mumbles something about Templars and the Order and there being no place in this life for tokens and frippery and–-

“You look absurd,” he finally says, harsher than he meant, unsmiling, resentful.

He regrets it immediately–-the look in her eyes, the way her scar pulls when she grimaces–-it looks like it pains her, and he shouldn’t hurt her, she has been so good to him, even when she drives him mad–-

She sets the mane back on his bed gently, but him she prods, right in the center of his chest, her long finger jabbing mercilessly at him without his armor. “You can be better than this.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, stiff-backed and full of fury. He’s sorry, but the words never find his lips quick enough–-she’s already gone.

* * *

She avoids him for weeks. It’s winter, and the training is grueling in this frigid, pissing coastal rain and wind, and he throws himself into it with a vengeance.

He curses himself for being a rude idiot, appalled when he thinks what his mother would have said.

She’ll probably never speak to him again–-and he wouldn’t blame her, it’s not just this once; he is appallingly cruel sometimes, when he’s tired or angry or he hasn’t slept in a week because of nightmares. It may become awkward soon-–he may have to reassign her.

He…finds that the thought hurts. He doesn’t want to lose her or send her away. She never gives him a moment’s peace when she’s with him, she challenges him constantly, but…it feels right. Sometimes she says these wild things he can hardly countenance, but a small voice deep inside him thinks, quiet, stifled under the pain and the buzz of the lyrium: “Yes.” Nothing more-–just a quiet, tiny affirmation.

And then it’s lost under the stress and strain of training, of the lyrium buzz, of darker thoughts. Kirkwall is becoming a powderkeg–-and he doesn’t have time for these thoughts.

* * *

She comes to his room late one night-–long after the last watch has changed guards. The Gallows is still lit like midday. There’s a feel in the air like the whole world is going to collapse at any moment, and few are sleeping despite the hour.

He reaches for his sword when his door cracks open–-but it’s only Thea, her arms clasped behind her. She sidles to the bed, coltish with an uncertain look on her face.

He is so tired but can’t sleep, and the tension in the air only sends him into spiraling nightmares if he shuts his eyes. He watches her approach, tries to find a smile to express the tiny spark of happiness burning in his chest–-but Maker, he’s so tired.

Her face falters a little, but she steels herself. “Listen. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t give you such hell. It’s a bit rough out there, and things feel off in this damned fortress, and I don’t want to be apart from you.”

She thrusts her arms out to him, an oilcloth package in them. His brows go up, and under the stress and the lyrium buzz he thinks–-quietly, softly, to himself:  _why do women keep handing me things?_

“Take it,” she mutters, blushing, looking annoyed at his blank expression.

He obeys, because it’s easier than thinking of something to say, and flips one corner of the cloth back, revealing the contents.

“Oh.”

It’s a soft little startled utterance, just a breath. The lion’s mane. But–-

“What-–how-–?”

She gets impatient with him and takes the package, shaking it out so the oilcloth falls away. Rich red fabric–-Fereldan red, and gold scrollwork–-unfurls below the mane. It’s-–

“It’s a surcoat. It’s meant to go over your armor. And the red–-well I’ve never met a man who’d look better in Ferelden red, Captain, I’ll tell you that for free.” She’s babbling a bit, nervous, because this is the biggest violation of his space and privacy she’s ever committed, and it could go up in her face–-pardon the parallels-–like flames.

He reaches out with one hand, cautiously, stroking the fur, the soft combed wool. Thea goes still, except for her feet, which fidget and shift.

“I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have, but it’s so gorgeous, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you in it–-and I just…” The honesty trips out of her before she can bite off the truth-– “You’re just always so sad, Cullen, like you think you’re not strong enough to bear it all, and I just wanted you to remember. That you are strong. And lo-–and courageous, and under all that hurt, you’re kind. I need you to remember that.”

Her words stumble to a halt, and she clutches the mane to her chest. She’s so much steadier when she’s pushing him and fighting him–-this feeling in her chest right now is killing her, it burns more than mage fire. And that word–-almost tearing from her lips. Maker save her, what a nightmare that would have been.

She doesn’t have time for love. There’s a letter on her bed, from the Right Hand of the Divine herself, that scowling beautiful Nevaaran, who wants her to join the Divine’s personal guard, wants her to take Seeker trials–-and she means to do it, if she can just be sure–-just be sure that Cullen won’t become a monster if she leaves. Maker forgive her for her pride but she wants to save him.

He is suddenly looming in front of her, and she staggers back, startled because she’s been so deep in her own thoughts. A look of agony passes over his face-–at her flinch, realizing he has frightened her without meaning. He only meant-–

Thea reins herself in, smiles up at him tremulously, and swings the coat around his shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean-–”

His hands cradle her face tenderly, his amber eyes shattered like glass under too much heat-–his lips are pressed tight against emotion. “Why? What in the world can you possibly see in me that makes you want to bother?”

It’s not at all what she expected him to say. But then, she hadn’t expected to go blurting truths to him either. Thea buries her fingers in the fur, looking down, avoiding his eyes because hers are suddenly stinging and she’s terrified she’ll do something dumb like cry or try to tell him that she loves him again. “I told you, you fool,” she says thickly. “You can be better.”

It means so much more, this time when she says it–-she hopes he hears, that he understands. He can be whole again, he can be a better man, he can be more than this angry, scared Templar with lyrium in his veins and darkness in his heart–-but gentle hands, gentle lips, tender love even when he fucks her, so gentle with her body and never thinking to abuse the trust a woman has to give a man to let him touch her…

“Maker’s breath, Thea.” He kisses her because he doesn’t know what to say, how to respond, but his lips are tender, his hands are gentle on her cheeks, his thumb caressing her burn so achingly soft.

They fuck, tender and laughing at last, and she wraps herself in the surcoat, fluffing the fur around her broad face and her thick shoulders, feeling proud and full of herself and forgetting for a moment how tall and hard and unwomanly she is because his hands and his mouth are so gentle on her, so worshipful.

It’s the last time they’re both happy.

* * *

Kirkwall goes to hell in a handbasket days later. The Chantry up in flames, Meredith mad and deadly and Cullen curses himself for being a blind fool. There is madness and fighting, and at the end of the day he is staggering with exhaustion, and his whole mouth is on fire, his upper lip severed and blood everywhere, but he just downs a lyrium phial and an elfroot draught and keeps moving because he’s the Knight-Captain ( _acting Knight-Commander_ , the lyrium sings), and the whole city will burn if he doesn’t organize his men and get some kind of order restored.

It’s hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, before he thinks of Thea–-wonders where she is and why she’s not…why she’s not…

His mind races-–the lyrium makes him a little slow, his sharp analytical mind flagging, lulled by the song–-but this is URGENT, where is his TEMPLAR?

He goes to the triage tents when no one can tell him they’ve seen her. He avoids the shrouded bodies laid out–-he can’t–-he can’t face that yet. She is in the last tent he checks, of course; fucking difficult, challenging, insubordinate WOMAN, she drives him mad, makes him think when all the lyrium wants him to do is follow orders, why can’t she just–-just-–

Her already pale Marcher skin is ghastly with blood loss. Her hands are limp, cradled on the cot at her sides. Her chest barely moves. There is a bloody mess of bandage over her stomach, and he knows–-Maker save him, Maker save them both, Andraste, Blessed Bride, save  **her**  don’t take this from him too–-

He knows the smell of a gut wound. Putrid, sour, dark, painful. It’s been hours since the fighting stopped in the Gallows–-she shouldn’t still be breathing.

He takes her hand, because he doesn’t know what else to do. Squeezes, gently. Reaches up, tenderly, oh so tenderly, to brush back her hair from her scar, cradling it against his palm, hears her voice in his memory:  _“It is my charge–-this is a calling: to protect the weak, defend the defenseless.”_

“Thea,” he murmurs, brokenly. He is just a broken man, a weak man, the Maker wouldn’t take him in this state if he begged.

She stirs--impossibly. She should be hours dead. Her eyes open with a weak flutter–-they are dark, dark, deep as the earth, as the darkness in his own heart-–but Oh, she is full of Light. “Good–-to see you. Captain.” Every word is barely a puff of breath from her bloodless lips.

“Thea.” Maker save him, he can’t say anything but her name. His eyes are burning.

There is the faintest curl in the corner of her wide mouth. “Don’t–-worry. Doesn’t…hurt. Anymore.”

A sob is trying to tear out of his chest-–he can feel it, ripping him open, all the darkness inside trying to get out. “I’m so sorry. I should have been here, I should have been here sooner-–I didn’t think-–”

“Fucking…lyrium.” Her eyes are burning with the Light. “Make you–-forget your own mother. If you let it.” She wheezes quietly for a moment, taxed by the feeling behind this sentiment.

Cullen just squeezes her hand tighter, feeling so much through the buzz in his veins, the song in his head. The Light in her is burning it off like fog before the rising sun, and it hurts–-Maker it hurts to  **feel** …

She is dying, and all he thinks of is his own pain. What kind of monster has he become?

Her hand twitches in his; he releases her, terrified he has squeezed too hard, that he’s hurt her. But her fingers creep, slow, laborious, wavering like a leaf–-

He takes her hand in his again, gently, gently, carefully, brings it to his face, presses a tender kiss into the well of her calloused palm. She smiles, so full of Light, despite the blood in her teeth, the dirt and gore covering her-–she is beautiful.

“Be. Better. Love.”

They’re the last words she speaks. The darkness is ripping from him, her hand is cold on his cheek, her chest does-–not-–lift-–

The Light is gone.

But it takes some of the Dark with it-–that is her last gift to him, she who has been a true and loving servant of the Maker and his Bride, who has carried out His charge in every way she can–-

Cullen collapses into himself, still clutching her cold hand, the sobs tearing from him now in wracking ruin, and he doesn’t care, he’s in a moment by himself, triage goes on around him but here-–

He feels it all. The pain, the dark, the tenderness, the light, it all comes crashing down on him in this moment, nearly ten years of it. It destroys him utterly.

* * *

It is much later that the Seeker, the Right Hand of the Divine, finds him, with an offer that stuns him at first. He has organized the remaining Templars, restored some order to Kirkwall. The Champion has disappeared, and he doesn’t truly want to find her, but he keeps looking, maybe not as hard as he could.

Cassandra Pentaghast is a terrifying woman driven with purpose. She wants him to leave the Templars, to take a position in a new force, authorized by the Divine–- _not an Exalted March, though Maker help us, it may come to that eventually_ , she says to him, sounding unaccountably exhausted at the thought.

He doesn’t understand why. He’s taken to wearing the surcoat, he doesn’t care the glances he gets from his Templars, and he feels the fur fluff around his hand as he rubs the back of his neck. It tugs a soft bittersweet smile at the still-tender scar at the corner of his mouth, remembering….

He straightens and looks Cassandra dead in the eyes. “Why me?”

She cocks her head, with one of those wordless noises she tends to make–-sometimes in thought, sometimes in disgust. “You came highly recommended by a Templar I was hoping to recruit. She would have made an excellent Seeker.”

He stills, pain flooding across his face and then shut down behind an impassive mask. “That’s–-surprising. To hear. I am sure you know my background–-and the fact that I failed to discern Meredith’s corruption should tell you-–”

Cassandra silences him with a sharp look. “She believed–-and I believe–-that you. can. be. better.”

It’s a knife through the heart-–a burn of the Maker’s Light through the lyrium song. It  **hurts**.

His hand tightens on the pommel of his sword, as he fights to steady himself. Hears her last gasp:  _“Love.”_

He gasps a ragged breath, bows his head, fist to heart, mutters brokenly to himself: “Maker help me, I will try, Thea.”

The Seeker looks him over, considering him, thinking about the file on her desk, the letter, the things the letter said and the things it didn’t. Damn her romantic heart anyway. He’s everything that’s wrong with the Order in a neat lion-wrapped package, and she should know better. But she’ll do it anyway.  _Someday they may judge me, call me a fool…but not today._

“I shall expect to see you in Val Royeaux then. And Commander,” she adds, using his new title, and also his active title–-“The lion’s mane suits you.”

She chuckles softly to herself, sauntering away, sword and shield settled and at ease.

He stares after her, bemused, a soft “Maker’s breath,” escaping his lips.

* * *

 

Bored? Come find me on [tumblr](http://lustfulpasiphae.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this is the fault of mirabai0821. She asked: "how did Cullen get his surcoat?" and I answered. It was a much longer answer than anyone was expecting, myself included. This isn’t just about Cullen’s surcoat. This is: his scar, he darkest fears, his deepest pain, the softness of a lion’s mane, the tenderness of a lost love, the strength of a woman who saved his soul. His reason for giving up the lyrium–-his reason for leaving the Order–-his reason for trying to “be better.” Because when Mira Trevelyan first meets him around the War Table, he is already on his way to becoming a better man, and Kirkwall isn’t enough, by itself. 
> 
> So I found his catalyst–-and go figure, it was another Marcher woman. Forget the Grey Wardens, and forget Blackwall. *We* will save the fucking world, if pressed.


End file.
